


Warm

by bilboh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Cute, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboh/pseuds/bilboh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decorating at 221B was a more enjoyable Christmas experience than Sherlock remembers having.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Pointless fic, really. Clearly super short. I just really wanted to write a warm fuzzy Christmas fic. I hope it's worth anyone's time!

Sherlock looked around disdainfully at the growing amount of fairy lights that dressed 221B Baker Street. 

"It's beyond me why people do this _every year_. It's quite ridiculous, and a little bit digusting, really. It's strange how easily average minds are entertained," he sneered as he took a seat on the sofa. However, he honestly didn't mind the Christmas atmosphere as much as he used to. The flat radiated warmth and comfort, with the dim light and blanketing warmth of the roaring fire and the scents of pine and spices. Sherlock admired how cheerful and warm John looked as he went about the flat with decorations. He was wearing his beige sweater, which was one of Sherlock's favorites, rather than one of his customarily horrid Christmas sweaters. He had to admit to himself that this was nice. But he still saw no point in fairy lights.

John simply rolled his eyes in response and continued lacing the flat with garland and ribbon. He wouldn't waste time attempting to explain this to Sherlock, but he found solace in routine like this. After Afghanistan, he had found an appreciation for routines and simple celebrations. It felt like he had some sort of grip on his life. And after meeting Sherlock, he needed that feeling more than ever. He loved the reckless lifestyle, of course, but he needed a break to keep his head. He knew Sherlock could never understand something as, well, _normal_ as putting up Christmas decorations.

John finished the room and began on the tree. He gathered the lights in order to wrap them around the tree. "Sherlock, I know I might as well answering my final summons here, but would you please lend me a hand? I can't reach around the back..." he waited for a snappy remark but instead heard a quick few steps of bare feet and saw a hand reach out to him, signaling for him to hand over the fairy lights. He placed a roll of lights in Sherlock's thin hand and the two worked together, rhythmically spiraling the lights around the tree. Much to John's surprise, Sherlock even stayed and helped John to strategically display the ornaments instead of stalking to his room. John was enjoying himself quite a bit, although he didn't quite understand why. He found himself flushing each time Sherlock requested he place something in his hand, and couldn't help but notice the electricity he felt when their fingertips met. He blamed it on the hot wine Mrs. Hudson had made for the three of them and carried on.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, and you know it. It looks nice, doesn't it?" John said with his hands on his hips, admiring the finished flat.

"No, it wasn't. And yes, it does," Sherlock said admittingly. "It's quite odd. I don't think I've ever really enjoyed Christmas like this before. Of course, this is rather different than spending Christmas with Mycroft. A tremendous improvement, actually." John chuckled lightly and took a seat in one of the big plush chairs by the fire place. He sunk into the seat, the warmth of the fire surrounding him like a blanket. He sighed and felt himself begin to drift, his eyes feeling heavy. Sherlock strode over and took a seat in the chair across from him, pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and rested his head on his fingertips. The glowing heat soon began to smother him as well. He felt hazy, and he didn't like it very much, but he found great pleasure in letting his mind wander and watching John's chest rise and fall at a slow rhythm. He always loathed the thought of squandering time and brainpower by daydream, but  something about John's rugged and tired, yet peaceful state of sleep held him there.

He took notice of the dusty blonde color of his hair, and how incredibly soft it looked. He thought to himself how nice it looked in its current disheveled state. He studied his face, the crinkles and bags under his eyes that made him seem soft and vulnerable in his sleep. He noticed how his nose turned up slightly at the end and made him look perky and young. He watched him shuffle a bit, and relax, all the time his chest rising and falling. It was all very pleasant to look at, Sherlock thought. It was the first time that Sherlock's mind was at rest—and yet he found that he wasn't even remotely bored.

Sherlock noticed his own eyes began to feel weighted. He decided he was content with this night's activities and figured he would make his way to his room. He saw that the fire was not much more than embers now and decided he would let it burn out on its own. He hopped up, and looked over at John, who was still fast asleep. Sherlock felt something stir in his stomach, not unpleasantly so, as he thought that he might assist John Watson to his room. He slowly and quietly approached him at the side of his chair, gingerly slid his hands under his back and knees, and surprisingly easily lifted him up to his chest to hold him more comfortably. John stirred a bit as Sherlock made his way into John's room. He couldn't help but think it smelled nice in there as he gently placed John on the bed, taking care to see that his head was comforably on the pillow.

He leaned down to tug the covers over John. At this, John's eyes fluttered open a bit.

"Sherlock, what're you..." he mumbled, his speech sounding slightly slurred in his half-sleeping state, and drifting off a bit before he could finish his thought. He continued to study Sherlock's face. Sherlock responded with nothing. He continued to pull up the covers, when, suddenly, John reached up and gripped a fistful of Sherlock's silk shirt and gently pulled him downward. He closed all the distance until his lips pressed against Sherlock's. Sherlock tasted the wine and spice in his breath, and couldn't help but enjoy the warmth. He gently pressed back, tilting his head a bit. The pleasant softness of John's lips on his made something in him stir giddily. Unsure of what just happened, but not unappreciative, Sherlock pulled back slowly and began making his way out the door. John grabbed his hand and Sherlock felt that something in his chest again.

"Stay," John mumbled in a half whisper. 

And so he did.


End file.
